


Souffrance

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguities, Arthur Pendragon (Merlin) Saves the Day, Awesome Gwen (Merlin), Dreams and Nightmares, Fallen Angels, Gothic, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Science Experiments, Sort Of, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 06:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17861975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: Persistent nightmares have stalked Arthur Pendragon since his father died. Together with the aftermath of his own head injury, they leave him with debilitating migraines that sap his ability to function. But how are his dreams about the guardian angel who saved him linked to the mysterious Dr Morgause Fox? Maybe this time it is Arthur's turn to save his angel?





	Souffrance

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of neo-Gothic melodrama. Written for my hurt/comfort bingo February amnesty challenge, which had the following prompts: experiments by evil scientists, wild card, fall from grace, headaches / migraines. I was listening to Messaien's extraordinary organ work, "Jesus Accepte La Souffrance" when I wrote this. Check it out; it fits the Gothic chapel setting perfectly.
> 
> With huge thanks to the lovely Penn who read an early draft and was the essence of tact and encouragement. Thank you :)

o%o

The first time the man enters Arthur’s dreams, he is naked, and Arthur doesn’t even know that he was an angel, once.

Curling his arm around the man’s waist, Arthur traces the angry line of thin scars down his shoulder blades with his lips and presses his nose to the crease in his milk soft skin, breathing the scents of sunshine and candlewax.

The man turns to him, murmuring, mouth turned up in an adoring smile, dragging sheets across his bare body, and Arthur thinks, _this is it. This is home._

But then the accident steals Arthur’s father and his memory, and nothing feels like home any more.

 

o%o

Darkness blankets Arthur, but a distant glow draws him. His slow footsteps echo on cold stone. As he draws nearer to the light it flickers. What if it goes out? The sudden fear makes his pulse drum faster in his ears.

The light resolves into a single candle, illuminating a sculpture of a man-sized angel who lies on a cold grey slab, white marble tinted a warm orange by the guttering candlelight. A pair of delicate crystal angel’s wings, fragile as glass, are pinned to the slab. Thick steel spikes split the wings. Ugly gashes mar their exquisite, translucent feathers. Wondering at the sculpture’s macabre detail, Arthur draws nearer.

The angel’s eyes fly open. They’re dark and brimming with anguish.

“Arthur,” he whispers. “Help me.” His eyes flash golden.

“No!” Screeches a high, distant voice. Abruptly, the candle gutters and winks out, plunging them into blackness. The angel screams in a dissonant voice that cuts out abruptly.

In the distance, an organ chord clashes.

When Arthur wakes, heart still pounding, his headache feels as if it will split his skull in two.

o%o

“You’re late again, little brother.” Morgana’s eyes are cold at first but they unthaw slightly and her forehead acquires a concerned furrow as she stares at him. “Why the sunglasses? Another one of your nightmares?”

“It’s just a migraine.” Settling at his desk with a hot black coffee, Arthur pokes listlessly at his computer to coax it into life. He doesn’t take his sunglasses off. The light hurts his eyes.

“You’re getting them more and more frequently.” Her mouth narrows. “Are you still seeing Dr Muirden?”

That charlatan. Arthur grimaces and ducks the question. “Time is a great healer. I think they’ll be getting better soon.”

Who knows, perhaps it’s true? Last night, the nightmare was worse than ever—but on the other hand he got further into the tunnel, or whatever it was, than ever before. He’s never got as far as seeing this sculpture before. Perhaps he has nearly resolved whatever problem still haunts him all these months after the accident? Perhaps he just needs to get past some invisible psychological barrier, to understand what this angel means in some buried part of his subconscious, and then everything will be all right.

“Look, I know how much you hate doctors, but you should see someone for those migraines.” She fumbles in her bag. “And I know you’re not a big fan of alternative medicine either but… I’ve been seeing this woman for my back pain, and she’s amazing.”

Morgana’s back has been a lot better of late, but Arthur doesn’t see why that should be relevant to his inability to sleep without nightmares. They're not caused by any physical problems. The concussion is not that bad; his memory has largely returned, after all, even though he doesn't recall much about the day when the accident happened.

“I’m fine. I don’t need another fucking doctor.” He shudders, remembering the last one. He’s been prodded and poked and scanned and assessed by every damned medical specialist in the capital. And as for alternative therapists… well, quite frankly, he’d rather be left alone to work through his demons than meet another charlatan like Edwin fucking Muirden.

“We both know that you are not.” Morgana slides a business card under his paper cup. “Put it this way, little brother. What have you got to lose? Call her.”

“You bully me.” He sighs, picking up the cup and taking a swig of his coffee through the tiny hole in the plastic lid. It’s too hot. The business card now has a brown coffee stain on it.

“Look. Just… just call her. Okay?”

As she strides away from his desk, her skirt swishing, Arthur fingers the business card. There’s a picture of a woman on it. She’s wearing too much eyeliner.

 _Morgause Fox, Spiritual Healer._ It says.

With a quick glance around the office to check that no-one is looking, he slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket before turning back to his computer screen. He should go straight into his email inbox but instead on a whim, he opens a search engine and types in the words _fallen angel statue_. Not sure exactly what he’s looking for, he scrolls past the usual clump of adverts, popular web pages and museums, and through onto the second page of search results. But there’s nothing there, nothing like the sculpture he saw in his dream.

It was so realistic, though. The artist must be famous, surely. He must have seen it somewhere, maybe in a museum or something, and then his subconscious must have hooked onto it in his dream. But those eyes - tormented, shining in anguish and pain - Arthur must have conjured those from deep inside his psyche.

He’s about to give up when he sees something that catches his eye. Intrigued, he clicks on a link to a page devoted to obscure arcana and dark magic.

 _Fallen angels_ , the page says.  

_They say that when an angel falls, his precious feathers leave him one by one. The pain is like that of a thousand scorpions. The pain you feel when one hair is plucked? Yes like that, but deeper. The more pain each feather takes from the angel when it leaves, the stronger its power to heal... each feather is more beautiful than the petals of a rose, more precious than gold. It can heal a thousand wounds or command a thousand armies._

Arthur shivers, he’s not sure why, and clicks away from the site, searching for reviews for Morgause Fox instead.

o%o

It’s an old nightmare, this one, from an incident years ago when Arthur was at prep school and one of his father’s enemies hired people to try to steal Arthur away from school and hurt him. It still haunts him, even now.

He is running, and the huge, thick-set man is gaining on him. The man shouts and swears, calls Arthur names, tells him he will never get away. But Arthur dodges his swinging arms, and dashes out into the woods as fast as he can run.

He runs and runs until his short legs can hardly carry him any more. He runs until his legs burn with fatigue but a rustle in the undergrowth and a snarl tell him the man is still close behind him. He sobs, heart hammering.

“Quick. In here.”

Without thinking, Arthur swerves, panting into a bush, where a dark-haired man with pale skin and long arms catches him and holds him close, serious eyed, one finger to Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur wants to scream, but the man’s voice is so soothing. He hesitates. What if this is another one of his father’s enemies?

“Hush, Arthur,” murmurs the man. “I’ve got you now. They’ll never find you, not while I’m here. Not a sound now. You are such a brave boy.”

“Who are you?” whispers Arthur, after the men have gone and the police sirens start to wail.

“I’m your guardian angel, and I am watching you always.” The man smiles, and his eyes crinkle and dance... and morph into eyes filled with pain, imploring and blue, flashing an agonized golden as he screams…

“Help me!” screams the angel where he lies impaled on the cold stone. “Arthur, please…”

Arthur’s eyes fly open. The clock on his bedside table blinks at him. Outside, the drone of the city tells him it will soon be time to get up.

“I’m coming, Merlin,” he says, but he does not know why.

o%o

Gwen flashes him a sympathetic glance as she stirs sugar into her tea.

“Can you bear to talk about it again?”

“Yes.” He sighs and gazes at his chocolate biscuit. “God only knows, Gwen, you’re the only person I trust with this shit.” Gwen’s a medic. A trained psychologist, and a friend.

“I’m too close to you to offer impartial advice,” she warns.

“I know. But let’s do it anyway.”

“All right.”

“Thanks, Gwen.” He’s grateful for all his friends, in the aftermath of the horrors that stalked him over the last few months, but none more than her.

“So, take me back again. Back to where the nightmares started.” She takes a sip, laying the tea back down on the saucer. Her eyes are warm and dark with sympathy.

“It was just after the accident.” They’ve been over this many times before, but unlike the array of shrinks and shysters that Arthur has spent vast quantities of cash on, he actually trusts Gwen, so he doesn’t mind going over it with her again. “Not surprisingly, I suppose.”

“So you’re having some kind of post-traumatic flashbacks?”

“No, I don’t think that’s what it is.” Frustrated, because that’s what all the medics he’s seen have assumed, too, Arthur looks up at the window, where a pair of pigeons are cooing at one another. “It’s not about the… the accident. Not any more. I mean, the first one was. There was a man there. At the crash, I mean. And this sounds crazy but… he had wings. Christ, this sounds more and more ridiculous every time I say it.”  He plucks a thread from his trouser leg.

But Gwen just nods and takes notes. “An angel.”

“Yeah. Something like that. Or a statue, or something. Jesus, listen to me. I sound like I’m channelling an episode of Doctor Who.”

“Don’t worry, Arthur? The subconscious takes surprising cues from popular culture, sometimes. I would not discount it.”

“But I swear, my memory of the accident is that he pushed me out of the way…”

“Some sort of guardian angel?”

“It sounds crazy, doesn’t it. But the angel protected me, not my father. My father… he went down, but I was spared. And now, now my dreams… they’re all about him. Incidents over the years when… Am I going mad? He has saved me, over and over again, and now he’s in terrible danger.”

“Uther?” she prompts, voice still calm and reassuring.

“No! Not my father! That’s the whole thing! You would think I would but… no in my dream it… it’s the angel. Terrible terrible things are happening to him. And I… I’m powerless to stop them.” His breath hitches as he remembers how the latest dream had ended, the angel’s face distorted in torment as he writhed, agonised, on that bare stone plinth. “He’s helpless and terrified and in such pain. And he _saved_ me, don’t you see?”

“Feelings of powerlessness.”  A line appears between her eyebrows as she frowns down at her tea. “It’s unusual, I grant you. Could your subconscious be imprinting your helplessness to save your father on this vision?”

“I suppose so.” The accident had been cruel, and over so quickly, taking Uther from him before he had a chance to react. “It’s all such a blur.” He shakes his head, then winces as the movement jars his throbbing cranium.

“What about the statue, then.” Gwen changes tack. “Have you seen this statue somewhere before?”

“No! I’ve looked all over London for it - the British Museum, the Victoria and Albert, all the usual places - searched the internet, and there’s nothing…”

“Devotional art can be found in some unexpected places. I don’t want to advise you to take any more medication than you already are, but it does sound like…” Trailing off, she sighs and stretches. There’s the sound of a key in the lock. Her husband Lance, no doubt, back from his shift.

“Save it.” Arthur takes a sip of his tea. “I think the antidepressants are helping. But it’s the migraines that kill me. And none of the medication I’m taking seems to touch them. I’m thinking of trying something else. Something alternative. Morgana’s found me someone.”

“Some people find acupuncture useful,” she says. “But do be careful, Arthur. There are a lot of people out there who claim to be able to help, but remember that the alternative medicine field is essentially unregulated. Do check that the practitioner can do what they claim to.”

“At the moment,” says Arthur, grimly. “I’ll try anything.”

That’s when Lance pokes his head around the door. “I brought take-away!”

“My hero,” says Gwen, smiling so that her dimples pop.

o%o

It turns out that the converted chapel where Morgause Fox runs her _spiritual healing_ practice is only a short walk from Arthur’s flat in Highbury. The heavy oak door, though blackened with age and studded with cast iron fittings, has a new lock and opens easily into a clean-looking, light foyer with a worn, stone floor. He’s ushered further inside by a young woman whose name badge states that her name is Sefa.

“Dr Fox will be with you shortly,” Sefa says, sitting down and eyeing him curiously while she taps at a keyboard.

As the door closes, the metropolitan sounds of north London are dimmed and he becomes aware of organ music wafting in from the next room, appropriately enough given that it must be the chapel proper. It’s an odd space for a healer to be using, although given her job title perhaps Dr Fox thought it apt. The music is modern, arrythmic. Sudden, explosive chords make the feet beneath his feet shake. He shivers.

“It’s weird, isn’t it,” says Sefa, with a jerk of her head and a quick smile. “It’s her favourite.”

“Is it Bach?” Arthur’s knowledge of organ music is fairly limited.

“No idea.” She shakes her head. “Morgause - Dr Fox - says it banishes demons and evil spirits. You get used to it after a while.”

There’s another set of crashing, terrifying chords and then the music retreats into silence, followed by a series of quieter, high fast notes that put Arthur’s teeth on edge.

The music is still playing when Dr Fox herself enters the room. Arthur recognises her from the picture on her business card. She tosses blond hair away from her forehead, and beckons for him to follow, a smirk lifting one side of her mouth.

“Arthur Pendragon? Morgana has told me a lot about you.” She tilts her head on one side and her eyes flick up and down his body. “Come. Let us see if I can help you.”

Arthur’s heart sinks as he instantly identifies her as a drama queen. She must be one of those theatrical types; probably a failed actress or musician or something. Despite her self-styled doctorate, he very much doubts if she has any academic or medical credentials. He’s got half a mind to walk straight out.

Still, Morgana swears that Morgause has helped her pain, and the placebo effect is meant to be very powerful. If the so-called doctor waving her hands around and saying “woo” a lot, while all the while bizarre music plays, will banish Arthur’s nightmares and cure his migraines, he’ll take it.

Taking a deep breath, he follows her into the chapel. The door closes behind him. The music is louder here - there must be speakers around the space to centralise it on the patients. He steps into the cool air of the nave. It draws goose bumps on his bare forearms, and he shivers.

“Cold?” She bares her teeth at him. It’s probably meant to be a disarming smile but it looks more like a grimace. “Don’t worry. I like to keep the air temperature below twenty Celsius in here. I don’t want to damage the organ.”

“I can understand that,” he says, to be polite.

“It’s a beautiful space, isn’t it?” She gestures towards the stained glass window above what he assumes was once an altar. It depicts Christ on the cross, his hands dripping with blood. “The _Messaien_ sounds so amazing in here. Iconic.”

“Iconic,” repeats Arthur, faintly. She’s right, if by iconic, she means that it makes you want to fall to your knees, weeping for all the world’s suffering. He’s never heard anything quite like it.

“One day, I will find someone who can play it in here live.”

Wrong-footed, Arthur shrugs, wondering when she was going to get round to the therapeutic part of their appointment, and at the same time puzzled at why he hadn’t really expected a spiritual healer to be religious.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not a Christian!” she says, as if reading his mind. “I’m not going to make you kneel and confess your sins!” Her eyes say otherwise.

“Right.” Uneasy, Arthur sticks his hands in his pockets, eyes roaming over the pews. “It’s always amused me,” he adds, eyeing the stained glass window, “that these medieval artists always depict the Christ as some ginger guy with blue eyes and a straggly beard. It’s like they’ve never seen an actual Jewish person before. He looks like my mate Leon, who comes from South London. Not someone who was born in Nazareth.”

He’s talking to fill the space because he’s nervous. Not surprising, really. This place is seriously spooky. The floor is etched with gravestones and memorials. On one side of the nave, there’s a wrought-iron gate with a modern padlock, behind which lurks only blackness. The entrance to the crypt, no doubt.

It’s weird, having treatment under a medieval depiction of Christ, and as for Morgause, with her unblinking eyes… well, he finds her creepy and difficult to read. God only knows why Morgana likes her. Plus, if she’s not religious, why hasn’t she got rid of the overtly religious iconography around the place?

“Sit.” She places him in a chair and tells him to close his eyes. “Relax. I’m going to pass an angel’s feather across your eyes. Keep them closed.”

An angel’s feather? Trying not to snort, he closes his eyes, willing himself to suspend disbelief. Something gossamer thin passes across his forehead, leaving warmth in its wake.

When he opens his eyes, surprised, she’s smiling at him again. “There. That’s better, isn’t it?”

He opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again. His heart thuds in time with the organ’s incessant plaintive tune.

His headache is gone!

But somewhere on the edge of hearing, behind the layers of high-pitched organ music,  is a sound that chills his heart.

“Arthur,” whispers a voice, so far away and yet so close that it could be inside Arthur’s head. “I’m so cold! Help me!”

He turns his head, startled, but the voice is gone and Morgause is staring at him.

“Is everything all right, Arthur?” Her eyes bore into him.

“Please, Arthur,” begs the voice.

Where does he recognise it from? Arthur’s mind whirls as he swallows. “Um. Wow. Yes. Much better, thanks. That’s… that’s amazing. An angel’s feather, you say?”

“Yes.” She smiles again, a winsome crook of her mouth that makes her look almost feral.

Arthur frowns. “Where on earth does it come from?”

Her eyes widen for a second. But then the smirk returns and she lifts her finger, giving her nose a single, coy tap.

“Now, that would be telling.”

o%o

“You can’t just break into a secure clinic!” It’s a measure of how kind Gwen is that she just frowns at Arthur and doesn’t immediately lift up the phone to call the police. “That’s against the law!”

“But I’ll be rescuing someone.” Arthur swallows down a mouthful of hot tea. “She’s holding someone captive down there, I swear. I could hear his voice. He was screaming, Gwen.”

He doesn’t know how Gwen manages to drag these things out of him. It’s probably why she’s so good at her job. He’s so lucky to have her as a friend, because he doesn’t know where he’d be without her. There isn’t anyone else that he can confide in, not about this sort of half crazy thing anyway, not without being laughed at and told to man up. Thank all the gods and angels for the Gwens of this world; people who will listen without judging, and then offer their compassion and wisdom.

“I know.” Her voice is super kind now, which means that Arthur’s being particularly dense. “You said. She’s holding an angel captive, and his feathers healed your headaches, but made your nightmares worse, because he’s in them.”

“When you put it like that, it does sound a bit far fetched.”

“A little.” She doesn’t roll her eyes but instead flashes him that sweet half smile of hers the one that no doubt has even her most intractable cases blurting out painful truths about themselves. It’s a gift, really. He’s grateful.

“You don’t believe me.” It’s no big surprise. Arthur’s not sure that he believes himself.

“I believe that you think it’s true, Arthur,” says Gwen, dodging his statement with her usual tact. “But don’t you think that it’s more plausible that your subconscious has latched onto the premise behind this Morgause’s spiritual healer business? And invented this guardian angel to represent your grief and survivor’s guilt? If you want to know what I really think, it’s that you need time, not some sort of harebrained scheme to get you in trouble with the police.”

“Look, Gwen. It’s irrational, I know. And maybe the whole angel thing is a complete fabrication. But I am sure there is someone down there. And if there’s not, what’s the worst that can happen? I have to apologise and pay for a broken lock?”

Arthur has been back to Morgause’s clinic again for another treatment. This time he ignored the organ music and the mumbo jumbo and focussed on trying to understand all the minute noises and signals around the converted chapel. With his eyes open, he could see evidence everywhere that Morgause was hiding something, or somebody, in the crypt. The fresh wrought-iron gate. The locks.

Suddenly, it’s the most important thing in the world to convince Gwen that he’s right.

“It’s true, I swear. I mean, she plays loud music all the time,” he says. “She says it’s to promote healing. But I think it’s to disguise the angel’s screams.”

“Ri-ight.” Gwen’s face remains scrunched up into a sceptical frown.

“The crypt had a new lock,” he adds as a trump card, convinced that Gwen will see it if he can only get her to understand. “Why?”

“Maybe she stores medical equipment and supplies down there?” she says, being altogether too reasonable.

“Yes. And her victim.” He frowns into his tea. “I don’t trust her. I want to look in that crypt for myself and check.”

“If you’re sure she’s holding someone captive, you should go to the police.”

“What, and explain that my guardian angel is being experimented on by a respected alternative therapist in the crypt of a converted chapel?” He pouts. “They’ll laugh at me. Besides which, it’s me that he’s calling. No, I have to go myself.”

“Oh, Arthur.” Letting her chair drift softly to the floor of Arthur’s kitchen, Gwen lays both her hands upon his and stares at him until he’s forced to meet her eyes, which are filled with pity. “I know you have had a really rough time, lately. But you need to let it go. Whatever has been haunting you since the accident it’s… it’s a trick of your mind, Arthur. And no wonder, losing your father like that. But finally you have found someone who has offered you healing. Don’t you think you owe it to yourself to accept that? I know that survivors’ guilt is a terrible thing, but you need to put it behind you, Arthur. The accident--what happened to your father--it wasn’t your fault!”

“It’s not about my father.”

“Really?” She tilts her head on one side with a sceptical sort of half smile.

“Really. I know you think that my father’s death has affected me badly… and in truth I… but I am beginning to accept that burden and carry it with me, even though I know you don’t believe it. And this, it’s not about that. Not any more. It’s… it’s about…” Arthur draws in a breath and searches the ceiling for clues. “It’s about _him_. The angel. I think it was him who saved me, and now it’s my turn to repay that debt. Truly. And I will not have peace until I do.”

“You can’t get peace by breaking and entering, Arthur. Promise me you won’t do that.”

He looks away again, pressing his lips together. He hasn’t told her about his latest dream. The one in which the angel screams and screams until he is hoarse, begging for mercy while a blond-haired woman stands over him, triumphant, a scalpel in her hand. Just thinking about the dream makes his blood pound thickly in his ears. Before he knows it, he’s shaking his head minutely.

“Arthur Pendragon. I know that look.” Gwen shakes his clasped hands between hers. “Promise me! Arthur!”

“I can’t.” He blinks at her. “Surely you can see that. I’ve got to do this, Gwen. I won’t sleep until I do.”

“Oh.” She throws her hands up in frustration. “Fine. If you insist on doing it, I’ll come with you.”

“No, you can’t!” He gapes at her. “Absolutely not. I do this alone. I don’t want you involved. This is all down to me.”

“I know.” She sighs. “You’ll get me in trouble, I know it. But someone sensible should be there to explain what’s going on to the police.”

“This could be dangerous.”

“All the more reason for you to have company.”

Ugh. Gwen is as stubborn as Morgana, more so when she wants to be. But Lance will kill him if he lets Gwen go with him. So Arthur nods, but in his head he’s preparing to go alone.

o%o

The night is dank. Fog muffles the sounds of London’s streets. It’s as if Arthur is alone in the world as he walks slowly up to the closed door of Dr Fox’s clinic, his trainers making no noise on the damp, slick street. In the darkness and silence of the night, the building stands brooding. It is alarmed;  on a white box above him on the eaves of the building a single red light blinks slowly at him.

He will have to be quick.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Arthur now steps round the side of the building into an alleyway bounded on one side by iron railings beside a house, and on the other by the converted chapel’s northern wall. There’s a door here, the entrance to what would once have been the priest’s sanctuary, the vestry. but it is padlocked. That’s not Arthur’s target. Just above his shoulders is a narrow sash window. Gritting his teeth, he inserts his lever here and tugs with all his might.

When the lock breaks with a snap, the window swings open. Abruptly, the alarm starts to sound and an orange light flashes. Ignoring it, Arthur grabs his bag, tossing it through the window. There’s a heavy clatter inside the building. He swings his weight up onto the window ledge and crams through. The space is barely large enough for his shoulders. With some difficulty, he wriggles around so that his legs dangle into the chapel. Something scrapes his shoulder. He ignores the sudden stab of pain.

It’s dark inside. He blinks, letting his eyes adjust for a moment. His torch is in the bag, on the floor. Damn. He can’t see where he will land, nor how far the drop is.  

Thinking furiously, he lets his legs dangle for a moment while he grabs his phone, shuffling his weight to pull it free of his jeans pocket. He swipes his hand along it, activating the torch function. He shines it down below him, peering into the gloom. His bag is right there. There’s a drop of about eight feet.

The alarm’s piercing sound sets his teeth on edge. He has no time.

Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he turns with difficulty back onto his side, breathing heavily. One hand scratches on something sharp. Pain floods through him. He ignores it, dropping to hang from his hands.

There’s no turning back now. With a sharp intake of breath, he follows his bag down into the chapel. There’s no time to lose. The alarm will draw people here within two or three minutes.

Now he has his torch back, he can see that his hand is bleeding. No matter. He needs to get on with this, or he’ll be caught. Jogging over to the cast-iron grille that bars the way into the crypt, he empties his bag’s contents onto the floor.

Grabbing his bolt cutters, he sets to work on the crypt’s padlock, working with clammy hands that are slick with sweat and blood. He grits his teeth. The padlock is too strong. His shoulders burn with effort but the bolt cutters slip through his fingers and the padlock stubbornly refuses to budge.

Frustrated, he stops, panting. It’s no good. What is he even doing here? He aims a kick at the grille. It rattles. A sharp pain floods through his toes.

But just then, far below him there’s a long, low sound. Distant, but unmistakable. A groan, or more like a moan, of someone in acute pain.

“Arthur? Is it really you?” There’s a long, drawn-out wail that makes Arthur’s blood turn to ice in his veins. “Oh, God. Arthur, please. Arthur! Please!”

Arthur’s skin pebbles. He shivers. It’s him! His angel! Arthur is sure of it.

“I’m coming!” he yells. Sweat drips from his forehead onto the padlock, which he attacks with a strength born of adrenaline and renewed hope. “Hold on. I’m coming, I swear.”

When it springs open with a click, he pauses, trembling. This is it. He knows with every fibre, every sinew. This is his epiphany. His destiny.

There’s another heart-rending cry from the crypt.

Arthur launches himself spiralling down the stone stair without a thought for his own safety.

o%o

He draws closer to a flickering light. It’s just as it had been in his dream. Only this time, the screams are real. So are Arthur’s goose bumps and the far-off wail of the burglar alarm and the the too-loud sound of his own breath and heart thudding against his rib cage.

“I’m coming!” he yells, hurtling along the passageway towards the light, through an arch into a space lined with rough-hewn stone walls.

The angel lies splayed upon the plinth, his body arching up in agony, wings bare of feathers, face contorted in pain. His wrists are bound with slender steel wire. It digs into flesh that is bruised and mottled and raw.

“Arthur! You came,” breathes the angel, adoration softening his face so that his eyes glisten and fill. “You came for me. I knew you would.” He slumps down onto the plinth, chest heaving. This is no statue, although the wings are as delicate and translucent as glass. Thousands of livid scars mar their gossamer surface.

Arthur’s heart clenches in pity. “Who are you?” He closes the distance between them with quick strides. “How do you know my name?” A part of him knows the answer. But he has to ask.

“I’m Merlin.” The angel chuckles weakly, but it turns into a hacking cough. His eyes flash golden and he screams before slamming back down onto the stone. “It burns! Hurry! She is coming…”  

Merlin. A jolt of recognition hits Arthur like an electric shot to the chest. But the insistent cry of the alarm is still shrill in Arthur’s ears and he dives forwards, with bolt cutters at the ready.

“Shit. We need to get you out of here.” He squeezes the tool. It breaks through the first piece of steel easily, but several more remain.

Footsteps are clattering down the spiral stair. Whoever it is will enter the passageway. They will be on them in no time. “Shit.” In a near frenzy, he attacks Merlin’s bonds, freeing the angel’s arms.

“My wings,” pants Merlin, rubbing his wrists as he tries to rise. His eyes flash feebly, and he slumps back down again with a pained exhalation that makes Arthur wince. The wings are still pinned by ugly black metal spikes.

“How can I free you?” Frustrated, Arthur shakes his head. The once-glorious wings are now naked of feathers, save one. Morgause has plucked them all. And he has no idea how to remove the spikes without injuring Merlin further.

“Take out the last feather.” Merlin’s naked chest heaves and his eyes flicker as a spasm of pain makes his limbs tremble. “Take it.”

“But…” Arthur hovers, unsure. “Won’t it hurt?”

“Like a bastard,” whispers Merlin.

There’s a distant shout and the sound of more footsteps running, above.

“Do it,” Merlin cries.

Arthur swallows, and grasps the last feather in Merlin’s naked, bleeding wing. Their eyes meet. Merlin nods and closes his eyes. Clenching his jaw, Arthur pulls.

Merlin’s eyes fly open and he screams. He starts to tumble from the plinth, eyes rolling back, body writhing in agony. The iron chains that hold him fly off, falling clanking to the floor.

Without thinking, Arthur steps in to catch him, bracing himself to take his weight. But Merlin is curiously light, his pale skin warm against Arthur’s cold fingers. The feather drifts to the floor, settling on top of Merlin’s now broken bonds. Merlin’s skin starts to colour; white changes to a pale, dusky pink. His breathing is laboured and crackly.

“Hush,” says Arthur, distraught. The footsteps are nearly on them. The door creaks. Still carrying Merlin, he takes one step, then another.

“Arthur,” whispers Merlin. A dreamy smile flits across his face and a hand comes up to cup Arthur’s jaw.

“Who are you?” Arthur says again. “How do you know who I am?”

“I’m your guardian angel,” Merlin lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Or I was. Not much good now… not any more. Fallen, you see. I overstepped...”

“The accident,” Arthur guesses. He can’t say when he begins to understand what has happened. “It _was_ you. You saved me. So many times.” Merlin had always been there, whenever Arthur needed him. “And now, it’s my turn to save you.”

The door starts to open. He pulls Merlin in more firmly against his body. “Let’s get you out of here..

“She won’t want me, now.” His eyes roll back into his head and his head lolls against Arthur’s chest. “Now that I am mortal. My remaining time here is for you, now, Arthur. Only for you.”

“You idiot.” Dimly, Arthur registers that the alarm has stopped, and the building has fallen silent. The blaze of recognition flares again in his chest and he can barely breathe from the mingled joy and fear that spring up with it. He’s got to get Merlin out of here, and fast. “You stubborn, self sacrificing idiot.”

“What have you done?” Morgause’s voice is harsh.

She steps into the crypt. Abruptly, electric lights blaze, hurting Arthur’s eyes after the gloom.

“I should ask you that, keeping a man captive.” Blinking rapidly, Arthur tightens his grip on Merlin. He will not let him go. “I will have you prosecuted for kidnapping.”

“Don’t be pathetic,” Morgause sneers. “I could break you with a snap of my fingers.”

“But you won’t,” says another voice. Suddenly, the tiny space under the chapel is getting crowded as three more people step into the crypt.

“Gwen!” Arthur almost laughs. “I told you not…”

“I couldn’t let you have all the fun, Arthur. And I had to see this for myself.”

Gwen beckons; past her come two police officers. Arthur recognises them: Elyan, Gwen’s brother and Lance. He’s never been so happy to see his friends in his life. They grab Morgause’s arms and start to caution her while Lance extracts a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

Yes. A taste of her own medicine, then. Arthur smiles in grim satisfaction.

“How dare you,” she screams, struggling madly against the bonds.

“I wouldn’t resist arrest, if I were you, Madam,” huffs out Elyan, holding her straining shoulders while Lance clips another cuff onto her wrist. “That’s an offence and it will only make things worse for you.”

Gwen steps over to Arthur. “Arthur? Arthur, let me see him. I think he might need help.”

Merlin lies shivering in Arthur’s arms, his wings now vanished but his bare arms and shoulder blades coated in vivid, angry scars that made Arthur want to weep with pity.

“It’s okay, Arthur,” Gwen adds. “He’s safe. You can let him go now.”

But Arthur shakes his head, eyes burning as the memories flood back and he recalls all the times when he’s felt Merlin near him over the years.

“No.” Eyes blurring, he buries his nose in Merlin’s hair and breathes in sunshine and candlewax. _Home. At last.  At last!_ “I don’t think I can.”

 

o%o

FINIS

o%o

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not my characters, I'm not getting paid.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art: Fallen Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17867789) by [LFB72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFB72/pseuds/LFB72)




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